


Angels are dreaming of you

by gloss



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Han Is the Most Ridiculous, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-ANH, baby's first OT3, kinkmeme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6332029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Han adores them. Not that it would occur to him to say so.</p>
<p>Also for <a href="https://starwarskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/586.html?thread=789322#cmt789322">this prompt</a> on the kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels are dreaming of you

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sonic Youth, [Kotton Crown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXzp57TZ0lc).
> 
> Post-A New Hope, pre-Empire.

He doesn't know what it is about these two. They're maddening as anything, impulsive and foolhardy, selfless and so damn optimistic it makes him wince _all the time_.

And they're about a million years younger than he is. That's a conservative estimate, actually. Next to them, he can feel so gritty, sticky, wrinkled, that's it's painful. Near to washed-up, to be perfectly honest. And tired, so damn tired, though that's their fault for _tiring_ him out. He'd be fine if they'd just slow down. 

Their skin under his hands is so _smooth_. Far smoother than seems physically possible, and, sure, that makes sense for a fancy princess who probably bathed in Bantha milk while attended by nubile handmaidens (an image he'll store away for another, lonelier time).... But it doesn't account for some dumb towheaded farmboy feeling just as silky and soft under Han's hands.

"You're killing me," he tells them, and they turn, as one, to look at him, wide guileless eyes practically _shining_.

Their lips are red and swollen; they both kiss like they're dying for it, like they've never done it and it's about to be snatched away.

Hell, Han is not exactly the best person to teach them patience. But his hunger differs from theirs; they're children, gorging on an unexpected windfall of sweets. He, on the other hand, knows all too well how rare these things are, how you grab what you can before you get away. Or you're kicked away.

"Don't _stop_ , damn it," he adds, shifting his position, spreading his legs a little more. They're still looking at him. He huffs out a breath. "What? So I like watching. That's a crime now?"

Usually it is Leia who will argue with him. She loves it; few things get her quite so red-cheeked and breathless, in bed or out of it. Luke doesn't spar verbally, not so much; he'll watch, carefully, take stock and then, out of nowhere, _act_ from a vector no one could have possibly predicted.

But this time, it's Luke tilting his head and saying, "What do you want?"

"Just told you, kid," Han says and waves a hand. "Go back to what you were doing."

Leia snickers. "Because we're your personal sex-droids, just hanging on your every desire, ready to perform."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I meant." Han rolls his eyes and tries to cross his arms, but Luke grabs one hand and tugs Han closer. 

"Programmed to please," she continues. "Must be so nice."

"It's real convenient, yeah," he snaps, speaking quickly before Luke kisses him, right into his open mouth, tucking himself into the circle of Han's arm.

Well, this is almost as good as arguing. Maybe better, especially when Luke shimmies up to his knees, so Han's head is bent back and Luke's kissing down, slick tongue just about throbbing against Han's. Luke's hand slides down Han's chest, where his shirt's open, then underneath it, and the kid's long, clever fingers reach and tease just right. Luke throws one leg over Han's thigh, straddling him, pushing his hand lower.

"Well --" Han swallows, trying to remember what smart-ass crack he was about to make, but Luke's staring down at him, bright gold and dark red, heavy-lidded eyes and the edge of sharp teeth as he pants. Han gives up, wraps his arm around Luke's scrawny waist and hauls him closer, holding tight, kissing him until he forgets to breathe.

Leia snickers again. Han opens one eye, trying to see but loath to stop kissing Luke any time soon. She's leaning in, planted on one fist, her other hand on Luke's back.

"You all right?" Luke asks her, because he's a dope and a sweetheart.

"Just enjoying how quickly you can shut him up," she says. Han's about to protest, but Luke's laugh is this bright musical thing that ripples him against Han like wind, bucking his hips against Han's lap.

"So mean," Luke whispers and Leia shrugs, unperturbed.

Han knocks the arm she has braced herself on so she falls forward, mostly against Luke's side, but a little against Han's chest, too. One breast is flattened on his bare skin, which is a good start.

"Excuse me!" She tries to pull away, outrage starting to flare in her voice, in her flush, but Luke chuckles a little and touches her shoulder. And just like that, she turns to look at him, and their eyes do that strange silent tracking thing, and she kisses him, softly, then harder, small hand closing in the fabric of his shirt.

Sometimes it just works out perfectly like this. Han _would_ recline in victory, put his arms behind his head, maybe share some choice observations on how successful he is at getting what he wants, thanks very much, but they've got him all snarled up with them. He's leaning forward, pants open now, limbs entwined with theirs, so it's not as if he can really complain. Sometimes someone kisses him, and that's just the sweetest thing, that without his eyes open, a lot of the time he can't tell their kisses apart. Luke's face is smooth, his lips plump and soft, and Leia can kiss as masterfully as any man. It's the best sort of confusion.

But now no one's kissing him, though he's got a lapful of both of them, one arm around Luke's waist, hand dipping down under his waistband to that small, hot hollow of skin just over his ass, the other hand on Leia's breast, her nipple rolling between his thumb and forefinger, and he'd really like to be kissing someone right about now.

"Really like to be kissing someone right about now," he announces.

It's not Luke, surprisingly, who answers the request, but Leia, her face pink and pinker, her hair awry, some of it plastered with sweat to her neck. She wraps one arm around his neck and digs her nails into his scalp, pushing into the kiss so hard that Han's head bounces on the back of bunk. He feels Luke's hand join his on Leia's breast as she shifts to straddle his other leg. She's doing _something_ with her lips around Han's tongue that's half-punishing suction, half-subverbal soliloquy, and he can't, won't, stop the thrust of his hips.

When Luke gets Han's cock out, Han shouts into Leia's mouth, pulling her over him, grinding up into Luke's hand while burying his face between her small, round, _sweaty_ breasts.

"Someone's impatient," she says, almost lazily, huskily, and Luke laughs.

They both laugh at him, all the time. It's exasperating as well as deeply insulting: where, exactly, do they get off mocking _him_? They're the children here, innocents aloft, careening from ridiculous adventure to the next on sheer enthusiasm and artless optimism.

He'd tell them as much - and he will, he definitely will, later - but Leia kisses him again even as she slips off his leg, rearranging herself against his side. Han's hand flexes and grabs at Luke's ass, finally losing contact as Luke, too, slips down and away. There's a long, vertiginous moment where Han's mouth is empty and his dick is untouched and he's about to say something, issue a _strongly-worded complaint_ but then the world rights itself again.

They're both mouthing his cock, facing each other, arms around Han's waist, and -- well. It's not that he's unfamiliar with the advantages of more than one partner, but this is something else. This is two silky-haired beauties kissing each other by sucking _him_ off. This is Han's hands in their hair, tangling up braids and sunshine-bright falls, thrusting up between their faces, grinding against their cheeks, this is being transformed into the singularity at the center of everything, that one bright dense _heated_ spot that draws the galaxy toward it. And they're doing this, drawing themselves onto him, lavishing his cock with tongues and lips and _love_ , holding him here, pinning him in place, making out with each other, with him, with --.

"Okay, kiddies, this is --" His cock is jerking, ultrasensitive, thumping against Luke's cheek, then Leia's mouth. Han twists his hands in their hair and fucks upward, three shallow thrusts before he's shooting and shouting. Some gets in Luke's hair, some on Leia's mouth, most on Han's belly, but they clean him, each other, up, with softer kisses and murmuring laughs that get louder as they crawl up his torso and kiss him, their heads bowed together and arms around his neck.

Han shivers and twitches, gasping a little, still, petting them both with heavy, awkward hands. He tips his head back, tries to even out his breath, fumbles for thought. 

When he blinks, he's convinced that they'll be gone when he opens his eyes. None of this can possibly last; they're going to grow up, come to their senses, go off and save the galaxy. Some day, later, they'll look at each other and laugh about that old pirate they used to play with.

Not just yet. Here they are, damp with sweat, small hands tightening around him, smiles curving smugly, identically. He drops a kiss on Luke's forehead, then the part in Leia's hair, before yawning.

"Well, that's me taken care of," he says, settling back. "Naptime now."


End file.
